Death’s Flame
by MyBoggartIsMe
Summary: Luna Lovegood is not who she appears to be. She's a happy soul, content in life, right? You could say that, but this obsession with happiness has nothing to do with life. Luna is more than happy to convince others that happiness awaits them in death, and its her mission to show them.


**Very clearly Dark!Luna, so sorry for everyone who adores her to bits, this possiby isn't the story for you. She's super psycho, but her intelligence makes her incredibly dangerous. Like killing people dangerous. Rest assured she's a villain so she'll see a downfall of some sort.**

**This is AU normal Hogwarts life; Harry, Ron and Hermione portrayed as heroes but a different psychopath to deal with than in canon. They're not going to be _the _best detectives in the world, and the real detectives are called in to solve the mystery. What they _will _do (and you will read) is be their mischievous selves; sneaking around, overhearing information and ignoring rules for the sake of Gryffindor pride. **

**This is a Columbo style murder mystery, therefore you'll see the murders take place. It's not going to be gore and explicitly graphic, but it's my style to provide adequate detail. So nervous disposition? Yeah, good choice.**

**This story is about Luna's mindset and motives as much as it is her murdering spree. And I don't think it's very plausible for an eleven year old to turn up at Hogwarts and immediately start killing, there's got to be some development right. **

**If you're still with me, do try to enjoy. And I don't own the Harry Potter rights, this story is probably a good reason why.**

**———————————————————————**

_Prologue_

_I sit here patiently waiting._

_I am calm and I am happy. Cold is just the sense, the warmth is the feeling. _

_Depression? What depression? The only depressive thing about this is that I can't be there to guide more sad people to a better resolution. I am not sad, I am happy._

_Dementors are here, they carry the punishment. They love me because I'm prey. Deserving prey. I don't know about being unbearable, but I can name half a dozen who would wish to see them suck my soul from my body. Many more think that is too soft of a punishment; they want me dead, as painfully as possible._

_At this stage, I'd like nothing more. After years of carrying out my life's duty, showing to those who need to know, NOT the road to happiness. For why do these people, these sad miserable people, need further misery before they reach the destination they most desire. Why not just arrive at that destination, claim your reward, haven't we suffered enough?_

_There are those glad to be alive. I'm happy for them. Living works well for them. I wish them ever-lasting happiness. And it won't ever end. For one day, whether distant or close that may be, they will stop living. Even me. Even Death's spreading flame has to die._

_I'm being punished for helping those sad people find happiness. But I hold no grudge. I am happy. It is not my fault that these people misunderstand, I guided the few who were able to see my vision. _

_They're all happy now. They thank me. They receive me like a friend. They understand._

_Those who are alive are sad their loved ones are gone. Those who are dead are sad they're not. We must stop being sad. You must be happy to be alive, or happy to be dead. Sadness belongs nowhere._

_The prosecutor, he was sad. He couldn't recognise it, and called me crazy and sickening. He echoes the Minister. He echoes the jury. He echoes the aurors. He echoes the families. He echoes the friends. He echoes society._

_They don't recognise, so they don't see. They don't see happiness. I saw no smiles in the courtroom. I saw no smiles at the funerals. It is all backwards. And as I die the truth dies with me._

_But that makes me sad. I won't be sad ever again. I am happy. _

_I am patiently waiting. Awaiting the day these sad people find they're way to happiness. I'll be happy to see them. And we'll welcome each other as friends._

_Until then...I shall enjoy my reward._

_——————————————————————_

_Seven Years Earlier_

"Lovegood, Luna" The elderly witch, as shrivelled as a prune and thin as a twig. She is stern, void of expression. She is Professor McGonagall.

She doesn't look happy ever, I hear. She'd win a fortune and not crack a smile. This is a woman who was supposed to be unhappy.

Her private life is shielded. No mention of a husband or children, no family or so much as a close friend. But if that be so, then she's certainly found something to be happy about.

Those other children were wrong. She looks on sternly, not in coldness but in pride. She sees aspiring faces and expects potential from all. She is willing to give them everything they've ever wanted, they've just got to do them right. She is happy to do so; it's this that makes her happy, yet she doesn't let you know so. To her we don't need to see it, that's not what's important.

She impatiently coughs and a kid besides me nudges me forward. I see now, I'm stalling the ceremony.

I step up to the chair and take a seat. I wonder what Mr Hat sees in my head. Where does complete happiness belong here? Hufflepuff perhaps, but I see smiles everywhere. Except in Slytherin.

He's strangely heavier on the crown than I expected. The immense weight of ancient magic I'm sure, having absorbed the energy's from students brains for well over a millennium.

"Oh dear" Mr Hat says "we have a problem don't we miss?"

"I understand your struggle Mr Hat. It's tricky to place me. I leave it up to your judgement, of which I trust completely" I tell it.

He replies darkly. "Every generation seems to have a mind like yours, I've regretted my involvement in them all. You'll bring shame to any house I will sort you into. It is that in which I struggle to place you."

Now that was rather rude, does he discourage happiness? Is he ashamed that we all aren't cold and bitter like him? Every generation? Is true happiness really that rare? "I hate to rush your decision Mr Hat, but the other children and the teachers are waiting for your verdict. As am I."

"What I see here is the seed of the fate that awaits you. The only thing I can do is encourage the parts of you that could perhaps be your saving grace of humanity" He sighs into my mind. "I think your best hope lies within the intelligence to see right and wrong. In no other place could I see any resemblance of salvation. Enough of this...RAVENCLAW!"

_Gryffindor table, Harry's POV_

Oh dang it, there goes my prediction. I only needed two more Slytherin's and I'd have got the pot. "That's me beat."

Ron whoops in encouragement, the competition down to the last two. "One Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff to go. You're going down Seamus."

"Dream on Weasley" he throws a boiled potato at him, and it only goes and hits Hermione. He needs to work on his aim, it could get him killed one day.

"Will you lot pack it in!" She throws back at them. "This is the Sorting ceremony, not a bookmakers. Show some respect."

"You're only saying that because you were first to lose the pot" Ron accused, a valid accusation at that.

"Whatever. It's a stupid game anyway. And you do realise we shouldn't be playing for money; we're underage, we might get expelled."

"I highly doubt that" I interject. "We're talking about knuts here, is Dumbledore really going to expel us for that?"

"It's as I said Harry" Ron replies "Hermione is just a bad loser."

"I am not a bad loser, I just...imagine it was last year and you were up there."

"Fred and George were players, Angelina Johnson won the pot. Don't play the morality card with me Hermione, just accept your defeat in dignity."

"It's hard for anyone to maintain their dignity when sitting next to you" she retaliated with venom.

Not an argument already, we've barely been in the castle twenty minutes and they're at loggerheads. I want to know why the hat took so long for that girl...what was her name again? Lovely Lita or something. It didn't look very happy to me, not that it ever does but I've never seen that leather brow so rippled.

And she seemed nice. Incredibly nice actually, not in an attractive way of course. Wait-no, she is kind of attractive but...that's not what I completely meant by "nice". She looked incredibly cheerful and comfortable in her own skin. Attractive kind of skin.

Shoot me.

"Noooooo!" Ron cried despairingly just as another kid got sorted into Gryffindor. Because his outburst was loud the majority of the hall heard it, and assumed it meant he wasn't happy that this kid was in his house. The smile on the boy in question, dropped quicker than a bowling ball. Way to go Ron.

"Mr Weasley, do you have any objections to Mr Jenkin's sorting that you might want to address to the entire hall?" McGonagall challenged him. My best mate only just realised what had transpired, his ears his trademark colour when embarrassed. "Err, no Professor, I just...forgot something important I left at home." he supplied an incredibly plausible, but dumb at the same time, excuse for his loud disruption.

Nobody was impressed unsurprisingly, but at least the disapproval was only being portrayed through glaring eyes, instead of colourful words. McGonagall answers "let us hope then it is not your textbooks or cauldron. Or worse still, your wand. This week may not be very productive for you otherwise."

Thankfully, for the sake of Ron's dishonesty, McGonagall returns to calling forward the new first years.

Seamus won the pot I presume.

Anyway, back to the blonde girl. Why would the Sorting Hat have such an extreme reaction to a simple and apparently harmless girl? I mean I had the thing on my head the year before, that took quite long. But that's because I'm so talented and enriched with traits from all across the house criteria spectrum. I could fit in any house. His words not mine.

I couldn't see his face, with him being on my head, so perhaps the scowl is a good thing. Indecision is some sort of compliment.

"What's up with Dumbledore?" Hermione asks out the blue. What was she talking about...oh, that's his serious face. Not something to ever take lightly, it took a lot for him to frown. His gaze is directed somewhere amongst the Ravenclaws, now glancing to and from the house table to the Sorting Hat.

"I think it was that girl. Took quite long to sort her didn't it, and the hat looked even meaner than usual" I answer to the best of my ability, I'm as clueless as she is really.

_"_Who Lovegood? I suppose she did take a while, but she seemed okay to me."

"Likewise"

"Maybe Dumbledore disliked the hats decision, since when has he ever questioned the hat?" Hermione might as well just be debating with herself, that's usually how this ends cos I have no more information than she does.

"I'm sure it's nothing"

——————————————————————

_Halloween, First Year Ravenclaw Dormitory, Luna's POV_

Halloween always reminds me of my mother. As much as I love my mother, I despise thinking about her. Specifically her death.

I can remember the good moments as easily as breathing. And Halloween always brought a flood of good memories. Like carving pumpkins into jack o'lanterns by hand, and then magically enabling speech so they could tell us scary stories.

Up until six years old, I didn't believe scary stories could exist. Finding out that they do, and that fate has decided you shall be its subject, was shocking and caused more damage than I'm comfortable in admitting.

The day it happened wasn't Halloween, but the glowing orange of the magical flames as they encompassed my mother in her workshop, was definitely the right shade for Halloween. Additionally, there was the black billowing plumage of smoke, and mucus green sparks; completing the colour association with the much celebrated night of horror.

What I've never been able to rid from my memory is the moment she spotted me, completely helpless and anguished, through the pane free window. The panic and despair I saw before she turned and saw me, were banished deep down and away from the surface. She wasn't escaping alive, we both knew that much; but once she saw me she refused to appear scared.

She wasn't saying goodbye, for she wasn't really going anywhere. She didn't want my last living memory of her, to be a mixture of pain and fear. No, she was setting an example for me to follow, all the way up to her death she was my role model. And with that last view of her alive, she ensured that she always will be.

But she was telling me something different too. Something I'm beginning to understand more and more with every day that passes by. She was crying from pain, and sad to be leaving myself and my daddy, but beneath all that was something completely irregular for someone about to meet their imminent death.

She was...excited.

I call it excitedness because as a six year old, I could compare the look in her eye with the one she had when she made a great breakthrough in her research.

That alone haunts me more than anything. For years I grieved, far too long than it should've taken. But as my curiosity grew and my brain power increased, it was my ponderings on her last living emotion that got me through.

My mother was a lover of life. A lover of magic. A lover of family. But when she was about to die, retain all that she loved, she found death more appealing. When she looked at me, what did she really see? Did she see her crying, loving daughter screaming for her mother to be saved? Or something that death presented her that she became enamoured with?

What I can say for certain at the end is my mother wanted nothing more than to die. She saw happiness, and if she truly did find it in death, than I'm glad that she died.

But it does make me wonder. My mother loved life, but in the end loved Death more. If a happy woman in life found more happiness in death, then people living an incredibly miserable way of life, would find a chance to die such a fortunate gift.

Would I like to die? I certainly don't fear it, but neither do I fear life. But I do fear something, and that is leaving people behind to suffer. No, I must stay to make my father happy, to leave him alive and alone would make me very selfish.

My mother's death wasn't exactly a choice, even if she became excited for it in her final seconds of life. That fire doesn't happen then death does not come. Death is not to be searched for, it's to be found. Met but not confronted until it decides it's ready.

I am not ready. I'm far too young to be ready. And this is just another reason why talking about Halloween is so despicable.

Wizards and witches don't really celebrate it either. After all, they see these horrific beings everywhere on ordinary days of the year. Half are not as gruesome and horrific as Muggles believe, and the other half are very much terrifying, and therefore not to be glorified by dressing up like these beings.

There is however a larger feast than usual, and decorations in the great hall. But that's all it takes for me to despise it. It's just one night, by morning I'll be extra hungry and ready to enjoy breakfast without distress.

Here's that unpleasant girl again, seems to have taken an immediate disliking to me. She's got ugly, straggly hair, and I'm usually complimentary to most hairstyles. And I'm sure she sucks lemons too much, because she always appears as if she's tasting something equally as unpleasant as herself.

And that dreaded nickname she has for me. "Looney"

"Yes Mandy"

She swiped at my feet perched on a royal blue footstall, knocking them off and spoiling their rest. "Who said you could use that?"

"The prefects say we are equally entitled to every bit of furniture in the common room" I answered.

"Yeah, which means we all have a say in who uses the furniture. Nobody wants you to use it, for Merlin's sake learn the rules properly." She snatched the footstool and took it back to her group of friends. I know that is not what the prefects meant by 'equally entitled', if I had refused to surrender the footstool after much complaint, then her case would be noteworthy. She neither asked or gave me the chance to relinquish it.

But for a footstool, I'd rather just accept the matter as finished. Allow the mean to feel victorious, for there will be a day where a favour is required from me. My experiences with these people come together to decide a fate; either in a positive way for them, or a negative.

Let's hope people like Mandy can amend themselves before they doom themselves to misfortune.

———————————————————————

_November, moving staircases, Grey Lady's POV_

My mother Rowena had never been a saint, she'd confess to that before anyone else. She knew enough about life to know saints don't really exist, because nobody can ever not do wrong. That is the definition of saint; completely righteous and pure.

Helga was probably the closest out of the four founders, and my mother the furthest bar Salazar. All living know the great founders of Hogwarts for their legends and philosophy. But depth belonged to each and every founder, in ways that may contradict what the students and staff believe as fact.

Like Godric, incredibly brave and noble, but was handicapped with an awful, near uncontrollable temper. I remember when he got into a heated debate with a wine salesman, and threatened to cut his head off with his sword. Nearly did too if he wasn't intoxicated out of his mind, and his coordination severely flawed. But at heart, we know he never intended to get angry; it was just a part of himself, something he was yet to defeat.

Helga was mild-mannered, generous and accepting. But nobody has ever documented her stock of hallucinogens, all fitted into a single room besides her bedchamber. And about four times the size of the room in which she slept. Hallucinogens that are banned now in modern times. But they never harmed her, nor anyone else, it just gave one reservations regarding her general contentment. What was she so ashamed off that she needed to hide behind a psychological agent? Nobody ever did find out.

And Salazar. No secret that nobody really favoured him. I certainly didn't, Godric despised the ground he walked on, even Helga could barely stomach him. With Salazar it was nary about learning to like him, only how far you were willing to pretend to. And the one person who could do that successfully was my mother.

She had him convinced that my mother was in love with him, of what was actually one of my mother's wisest schemes. I know the truth, she loathed him as much as the rest of us.The importance was him loving her. It made him far more pleasant to be around whenever my mother was present, but his vileness could never fully disappear.

Everyone else learnt that the best way to stomach the man, was by ensuring Rowena accompanied him.

And that is hence why my mother was the most admired out of the four founders. The chief founder some called her, the others named her the matriarch. She was the judge, and the protector. You stepped out of line, you heard about it and were sorrowful afterwards. But she'd stand behind you no matter what. Hogwarts was a family and she was the beating heart, as well as the brain.

She was not invulnerable. Her achilles heel always has, and was proven to be, nobody other than yours truly. Helena Ravenclaw.

I confused my mother's harshness as hatred, when the contrary couldn't be more truer. She was at her firmest with me, the harshest when I disappointed, restricted more times than I was rewarded. Because I was who she adored and believed in most.

Her prized jewel. The only accomplishment out of many that she would never trade nor forsake. Everything about me was perfection, and it was my mother's role to ensure the world viewed me the same. Nobody had dared tarnish my mother's perfection.

The solitary issue being my own capabilities to degrade and defile. After a fierce disagreement, where she accused me of lacking intelligence and wisdom, I wanted to disprove her words. I never truly believed she was genuine, they were tools to stir the fire inside me. She _wanted_ me to prove her wrong, but of course the method I chose wasn't the preferred way.

In my rage, I didn't solely want to prove my intelligence, but challenge her own. For once, wishing it was I looking down my nose at her. But my mother never did look down her nose at me, I just perceived it that way from her firm discipline.

I stole the only thing beside myself that my mother cherished, hoping the significance itself bought her undivided attention. I fled abroad with it, settled in Albania, awaiting the attempts of apology to come. Oh what a fool I was.

I hadn't been informed that my mother bound her life to this precious crown, and that every mile that parted it from her, took away her strength piece by piece. Two thousand miles and a two thousand fraction of my mother's life force remained. A normal witch would've been indefinitely unconscious before the first thousand miles, but my mother was no ordinary witch.

Alas she was incredibly weak, hardly had the strength to remain awake I was told. My mother could not recover because of the distance, but could not die either, the diadem kept her very much alive.

Alive but bedridden.

That would fail to last forever, the diadem couldn't account for natural necessities. Like fuel and hydration. My mother could consume neither solids or liquids, and she'd eventually die. Unless the diadem was returned.

My mother stubbornly prioritised me over the diadem though, that was in the Baron's message when he came for me. She wished the diadem returned, so that she could destroy it herself. It was me she was desperate for, she wanted her daughter to come home.

When I heard this I could not comply. I never wanted it to go to those lengths, to be the soul reason my mother was dying. It shocked me. I may have lost my mind, standing there consumed with guilt. With self-loathing.

I did the opposite of decency. I refused to return with him.

He was enraged at my apparent callousness, and perhaps he was correct in his assessment. It's the truth that I did disregard my mother, choosing not to save her life for I no longer deemed myself worthy. Ravenclaw's daughter does not run nor steal from her own mother. Ravenclaw's daughter does not cause harm to her mother. I was no daughter of Rowena when I abandoned her, stole from her and left her to die.

So I defied what a daughter should do, she deserved to die rather than have me as her daughter.

When I told the Baron this, I knew his hand was forced. He impaled me through the chest with his sword. I often recount the look of horror, followed by a pleading face of anguish, just before darkness took over and I could see his face no more.

I was expected to walk into the light, join the forever resting souls in eternal piece, but I couldn't leave this earth yet. I had to find my mother, tell her I was sorry, tell her how much I wish I had been a better daughter.

But time has no structure in death. I discovered this when I first generated my spectral form within the walls of my former home. The very place where I've remained for the best part of a millennium.

Most importantly though, I never found my mother alive. She was dead also, long before I returned, along with the rest of the founders. I only have her portrait, where I confess my sorrows to, but they are not the same person. They maintain the same physical aspects, personality and their memories upon the time of completion.

That artwork is my mother long before I betrayed her. I'll never get that chance now, and now I'm trapped.

The closest person to my mother was the Baron himself, simply a reminder of why I'm still here. He's bound to the earth now as repayment for ending my life. He'll spend eternity in remorse for my death, and I will spend the same time with the burden of my mother's death on my shoulders.

An apparent opportunity arose fifty years ago, in the form of a curiously intelligent boy. He was, and is, the only witch or wizard that has taken an interest in me since my death. He knew of my heritage and story, and lended me a non-judgemental ear. And he promised he could help me find peace, earn forgiveness from my mother. He would find my mother's diadem, return it to its rightful home, and free me from my eternal imprisonment.

So I told him everything, much time had passed and it had likely long been taken from whence I left it. He understood, and I hoped he'd succeed.

And that he did, he found the diadem. He did return it, just as he promised. But where he returned it to I do not know. I saw his fury upon his return, with which he unloaded upon me. I was to find his intentions for evil, that he had attempted to impregnate the diadem with the darkest of magic, make himself immortal. Fortunately for my mother and the entire population of wizards and witches all over the world; the magic my mother had imbedded into it many centuries ago, made it secure and unbreachable even in today's world.

To make me suffer for "deceiving him", he hid it some place I'll never be able to find it. At least not without the help of the living. Because of this boy, I never see myself trusting a living person again.

Despite it failures at salvation, I still like to come visit my mother's portrait. It's the only place where I can pretend nothing had occurred. I imagine the old days, where she'd braid my hair in the mirror whilst quizzing me on the many species of dragon.

I loved those moments. It's the only good thing about being an apparition. I can cherish these memories until the end of time. Perhaps you can still do so when truly at rest, but allow me my delusions, on the grounds that I will need to find eternal rest in person for true clarity.

My mother is napping at the moment, as portraits are famous for doing, and it's not known exactly why. Was this magic a constant and, like consciousness, required a pause in activity to recharge? Is it simply that they have nothing moderately interesting to do besides? At the very the least, I can go elsewhere in the castle freely. Portrait subjects can leave their frames for others, but only as long as another frame exists alongside.

I do not wake her, I like to watch her sleep, like I did as a child whenever I got frightened. She looked her strongest, and most inspiring, when she was asleep. I'm here when she wakes and we talk again.

I'm am never to be interrupted. The living avoid me, and the other ghosts would not attempt to challenge my patience. Not even that imbecilic poltergeist Peeves.

That, I'm soon to discover, is about to change. A blonde haired girl stares directly at me from down the corridor. It's well past curfew and the corridors are empty. From here I can't make heads or tails of her, but I do know I want no part of her admiration or aloofness; whichever draws closest to the nature of this intrusion.

I'll ignore her until she grows bored or tired. If she does not, the caretaker or a teacher will discover her presence after hours and shoo her off to bed. She certainly cares very little about repercussions, for she's not making any attempt to act inconspicuously.

Ten minutes pass, and she's still there. It is disconcerting and somewhat eerie, completely ironic statement from a ghost. And she's clearly interrupted my quality time with my mother's portrait, and she has not performed any action other than gander at me. I shall see what she wants, then demand that she leave me in peace.

"Whoever you are, state your business" I tell her in my disembodied voice, that undoubtedly reaches her ears concisely.

The girl springs into motion, and I mean that quite literally, she skips forwards, emulating a spirited pixie. "My name is Luna Lovegood my lady, I came here tonight to speak with you."

'My lady', just more flattery, that boy tried the same thing. "Luna Lovegood, you are young and adventurous. Incredibly proud traits I assure you. But defying rules and endangering your safety are not. Go back to your chambers."

"But my lady, you look in need of a person to talk to even if you're too proud to admit it" Now in her close proximity I can see her natural beauty and lightness, reassuring a little but not unlike that deceiving Tom Riddle; I might have taken a fancy to a handsome face like that in my living years. The worst kind of evil hides behind an attractive face.

"I thank you for your assessment, but if I was in need for a social exchange I could easily share them with other suitors besides yourself" I respond.

"Indeed, but those people aren't here. Or at least, aren't awake to engage with you." Her words clearly indicated towards my mother's painted form, slumbering restfully.

It is not this invasive girl that determines who I converse with, and when that conversation takes place. "At this hour, I do not expect an exchange. Quite plainly had I wished for one I'd come back at a decent hour."

"But there is no decent hour. Time is irrelevant to you. You could say your times alone with her are time_less. _So at any given hour, on any given day, you will come to your mother's painting. And why? You don't want to exchange any old words, they have to be the right ones."

That is beyond perception, that was psychological deconstruction. This is not reassuring, by any means. "I will not indulge you with information regarding matters that do not concern you. I will not ask again Luna Lovegood, return to your house and return to me my privacy."

"Please my lady, do not consider me an enemy. I promise to not pry into delicate things. I just want to speak with you on the subject you obviously have more knowledge of than I."

I presume she means death. Ghosts are the only experts that truly know what awaits the living upon the conclusion of life. They, just like me, rejected that path. The living find this fascinating, for it plainly portrays that their choices count even in death.

But any ghost will tell you, this choice is not granted as a luxury. This existence is not pleasant. There is a valid reason why ghosts are cold to human senses, and carry with them an aura of deep sorrow. Yes, the nature of our deaths are part of the misery, for regrets and unfinished business keeps us here. But gaze at length towards the poltergeist, and ask what he regrets? What business does he need to conclude?

Nothing is the answer.

Yet he's cold to touch, perhaps his childishness hides his aura, but his existence will transmit sad feelings onto any human if they are exposed to it long enough.

The answer to why we remain, will never be answered truthfully by a spirit of any kind. Trust my words, humans don't want to make this choice.

"I'm not at liberty to answer questions on the consequence of death, Luna Lovegood. It is a code we ghosts are duty bound to obey."

Luna leans against the stone, patient and persistent all at once. "No details on the science my lady, just advice and your experience."

If I answer her questions plain and blunt, perhaps she'll leave me be. "Answering your former request is simple, I advise the living to accept their passing no matter the circumstances, leave your regrets and business behind. I cannot answer your second request."

"Why don't you?" Luna questions on curiously. "Why do you still choose this existence?" This is completely irregular, living humans curious about death. It's neither fascinating or exciting. It's just a choice between peace and pride. Nothing more.

"I've told you far too much than I rightfully should. Forget about this fascination with mortality, you are far too young to ponder on these things."

"If death strikes tomorrow, I won't be too young then will I?" Her voice is calm but her defiance strong. Yes, definitely reminds me of that Tom Riddle.

"Goodnight Miss Lovegood"

——————————————————————

_Early December, Library, Hermione's POV_

What I wouldn't give to have a permit for the restricted section?

Yes they are restricted _because _of their content, but learning in an educational sense, with purely innocent intentions? Auror's don't make very good dark wizard catchers, if they didn't learn about the things dark wizards are capable of. We get taught Defence Against the Dark Arts, the first step towards defending oneself is to know the properties of the dark magic you are defending yourself from.

I'm a second year, way ahead of the current standard and being held back because of age. If only I was born a month earlier. I'm probably at third or fourth year magic capability.

I'm content where I am mostly, for basicality has its own appeal, and I've actually got friends who I'm more than happy to assist. And occasionally (quite often) lecture.

This room here has the biggest supply of books I've ever been blessed with free access too. It's like a chocoholics day out at the chocolate factory. But that person gets to a 'top secret' part of the tour they're not permitted to see, and that person is no longer content. Forget the incomprehensible amount of chocolate I'm perfectly entitled to enjoy, I want that forbidden chocolate.

Clever me, using food based analogies on an empty stomach. Mum made me swear not to skip meals, and look how easily I'm breaking that promise. I'm sorry Mum.

Two essays down two weeks in advance, I'm surely entitled to treat myself to a forbidden book. On the education side of the argument, all the information I need in my second year studies is provided via the textbooks we all bought prior to the start of the academic year. Or can be found in the library we have free access to.

But I know the Slytherin's have used magic not on the this year's curriculum, the only explanation for that is they are either taught these spells at home...or have unlawful access to the restricted section. Call me a skeptic, but I heavily doubt the Parkinson's and Malfoy's of the school are even applying for permission; what with their housewide beliefs that they are entitled to whatever they want, whenever they want.

Not that the professors should interrogate all students on where they learn their magic, but I don't believe they should be ignorant to the fact students are performing magic beyond their level, especially offensive spells. It's not dark magic as such, which is why they are probably letting these things slide, but if that doesn't encourage these culprits to continue on this trend, they may as well shamelessly teach them and make it official.

And there's people like me, simply wanting to learn for knowledges sake, and I'm denied permission.

Maybe I should take Ron's advice on board...no, Hermione! Don't even think about it! That's not how you do things, you don't resort to breaking rules and taking without authorisation. There's lines you do not cross, taking without asking is one step over the line. Don't make a hypocrite of yourself.

The rules clearly state that to pick out a book from the restricted section requires written permission by a teacher, or permission from Madam Pince herself. She will retrieve the book you need and restrictions for how long you are allowed to borrow the book depends on her judgement.

Even with permission, I'm not allowed to just wander in. Apparently with older students, particularly prefects, she entrusts them to retrieve the books themselves without her supervision. But there's no way she's giving that same amount of trust with a second year, no matter how reliable and rule-abiding that student may be.

And I've asked very, very nicely. Still no luck.

Harry can be just as bad as Ron, offering me his invisibility cloak with a sly wink. Consider me unimpressed that he can cheat his way into the section without ever getting caught.

But it is the only likely way I'll ever get to search through those shelves within in the next few years.

Peer pressure has never broken me before, but my obsession for books...it's definitely a good test of willpower.

I hate that little whisper, my inner voice. That devil on my shoulder. I hope the angel on the otherside is up for the task of keeping him quiet.

Then again, he's not the only demon I have to combat. "Hey Mione, take it you're finished?"

"Take it you're not, Ronald?" I retort in irritation.

"Haven't even started yet, and don't plan to" Ron answered truthfully, and no hint of actually caring that it wasn't the right attitude.

"Of course not Ron, I never believed for a second you were here to study, that would be ridiculous" I glare at him, and watch him cross his lazy feet at the ankles...on top of my damn work! "Get your feet off the table and my essays!"

That time he does become a little chagrined. "Sorry Mione. Actually that's why I'm here, to take you to dinner" he wiggles his eyebrows and once he's assured I'm unimpressed he backtracks "to eat dinner, with me and Harry in the great hall."

Well, I was just moaning that I'm hungry, and moaning in general if I'm honest. I could do with a nice bowl of tuna mayonnaise on cold pasta. "Alright, I'm coming. Just procrastinating over here anyway."

He kindly helps me gather my stuff; only so he could get us to dinner faster no doubt, but still sweet of him. One final longing look at the locked-down restricted section and I'll be on my way.

Or make that the completely wide open restricted section...someone forgot to close it.

"Come on Hermione, food glorious food" Ron chants.

"Yeah...I'm...I'll catch you up" I'm not hypnotised exactly, but there is that huge compulsion to just go over there and...take a chance that just presented itself.

Or be a responsible and decent student by closing it for Madam Pince!

"Now's your chance" Ron whispers conspiratorially into my ear, how'd he even get this close without me noticing. "Just step on in, I'll be your lookout."

"No, if I get caught I'll never be able to get books out from there. Pince will never trust me" I argue, but it doesn't come out as strong as I'd like.

"Pince will never know. It's a simple process, two seconds and it's over" Ron promises.

"She probably does a regularly inventory check, she'd quickly find out which books are unlawfully missing and hunt down who possesses the stolen book"

"It's still borrowing, you're not stealing anything. And if Pince is so watertight with her sacred restricted section, then where are the Slytherin's getting these upper level jinxes from?"

I shrug unenthusiastically "pure-blood families have their own libraries don't they, that contain much darker books than you'll find in there."

"They don't get used, trust me. You do remember my first demonstration of a magic spell right? 'Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow...'" Ron trails off thinking his point is proven.

"So? You Weasley's are not the benchmark for pure-blood home education. If you even had a bookcase I'd be surprised."

He soured a little, somewhat sensitive over his families wealth and social class. "Why? Because we're poor?"

I softly correct him, thankfully distracted enough to take my eyes away from the tempting sight of open cage doors before me. "No, not because you're poor. Even if you were as rich as the Malfoys, you'd likely spend the money on a full size Quidditch pitch, and an unlimited supply of food per person. A library doesn't strike me as a Weasley priority, which is the point I'm making."

Ron is satisfied by my response. "Right, well does Malfoy strike you as a home-studier? Does Malfoy Senior strike you as a home-tutor?"

"No, not really."

"No, they're too busy, in the comfort of their warm armchairs in front of the fire. And too power hungry to allow those beneath them a level playing field. Do you really want to be at a disadvantage with those snakes?" Ron passionately enquires.

"Obviously not, but I-" Now he's interrupting me, and I'm _letting _him. "Then get in there, you don't even need to look for anything specific, just grab and go. This might be your only chance."

I repeat my words from earlier like a mantra. "Peer pressure won't break me."

"Alright suit yourself. I'll leave you here to gaze longin-" I jump and he stalls as a loud thud pierces through the ambiance. It came from the restricted section. Perhaps Madam Pince was in there stocking the shelves. But it's better to be safe than sorry.

Not that I would be sorry if something unlawful was happening in there, it's not me who's breaking rules. The fault would really be Madam Pince's, if this did indeed turn out to be non-permitted access. But besides the fact that checking it out was the decent thing to do, it also had the added benefit of gaining Pince's trust. Meaning potential access to the section I'm defending, will be granted my way as a reward.

"I'm gonna see who's in there, then we'll go eat" I instruct my redhead friend, who was clearly impatient to get out of here opposed to concerned about library security.

"Fine, but I'm heading to dinner now. Make sure you find us when you're done."

I wave a hand at him as he departs, but other than that my attention is fully on the thudding sounds that continue to lure me forwards. Pince never makes this much noise.

Idiot Hermione, arm yourself. You never know when an attack is imminent, especially if it does turn out to be Malfoy or Parkinson. My inventory of spells might be limited, but I'm very good with all of them.

"Hello"

Typical, no answer. Just continuous thudding, talk about making one nervous. What if something else got in? It's barely been a year since a blooming MOUNTAIN TROLL strolled through the castle on a rampage. I want no part of that again, or something equally dangerous.

"I know you're there, and you better have permission" I try to sound authoritative but I don't think I quite achieved the desired effect.

The thudding stopped but not response still. Why does it suddenly feel so dark? I should've told Ron to be my back-up, I'm such an idiot. Come on Hermione, think rationally and don't show fear. Be a Gryffindor.

"I-I will report you. C-come out now." So feeble and weak, what's the matter with me.

I don't really want to look, but I do at the same time. I'm going to regardless, this is where I hold my breath. When I peek around this corner I'll either need the oxygen to scream or release a huge sigh of relief.

THUD

That was much closer than before! Oh no, this was a bad idea! It's not too soon to run, is it? No. Don't be a chicken Hermione, just see who it is and deal with it.

It's now or never.

Emptiness. Well, no emptier than usual. Books all over the shelves in an organised fashion, but nothing to connect the ominous thudding sounds with. More thudding though.

Is the restricted section haunted? Wouldn't actually surprise me. Peeves can usually be seen though. And he'd cackle and give himself away from the start.

Myrtle is the only other ghost who can manipulate her surroundings, but she was restricted to the prefects bathroom and girls toilets. No ghosts haunt the library, or so I thought.

The sound was coming from down low. Under the table perhaps, there's one by the window with two chairs. Can't quite see under it. I have to get closer.

"Aaaaeeee" I squawk as I unexpectedly lose my footing, and I stumble over the invisible obstacle that impeded me. In response two more urgent thuds resonate off the wooden shelves, obviously whatever that obstacle is causing the noise.

I reach forward and touch it. I can feel material on skin...this is a person.

I whip out my wand again and tried to think of the spell that ends the magical effect of a spell or charm. "Fin...Finita...Finite!"

The invisible body appeared in a flash, and a gasp accompanied her return to normality. "Oh thank you Miss Granger, I was beginning to think I'd be down here all night."

"Madam Pince! What on earth-"

"Incapacitated. By a thug no less. I'll be damned if I'm going to let them get away with it" Pince gets into a sitting position and brushes of the dust from her sleeves and skirt.

"How?" I ask, blood boiling. They've gone too far this time.

"Simple use of a stunning spell, silencing and disillusionment charm. I regained consciousness only two minutes ago, and I heard you speaking with Mister Weasley" she explains in a fluster.

"How dare they? I wish I had known" I apologize to her. She's been on the ground over here since before I even came in, and I just sat there doing my work. It's cold and uncomfortable down there.

"You weren't to know my dear, I couldn't possibly blame you for any wrongdoing. In fact, I thank you for acting diligently." She clearly didn't hear the conversation I had with Ron, at one point I was willing to take advantage. Now I know I was very fortunate not to give in, I would have literally walked into trouble.

"Did you see the culprit?" I ask, automatically ready to hear certain names pertaining to Slytherin house.

"I was unconscious before I saw them. Shame, I can't even punish the scoundrel who did this. It was a girl though, I know that much" Madam Pince answers gruffly, and finally gets to her feet.

Parkinson is still in the frame. I doubt Bulstrode is capable of those range of spells. Greengrass is a huge suspect, as she's the most magically talented Slytherin witch in our year.

Yes, I'm assuming many Slytherin's, but before you accuse me of prejudice I say that the Slytherin's I mentioned are very much capable of a feat like this. It's not down to their house, but how they conduct themselves and treat others.

"Did you recognise their voice?"

"I can't put names to voices I'm afraid, I've been here too long and heard too many voices in my years working here." I can understand that actually, no student is particularly close to the librarian so voices likely fall into the background.

"But did they sound my age, or much older?"

"Neither, the girl must have only been a first-year by the sound of her voice alone. But evidently, that's impossible."

I get her point, even if they had knowledge of those spells there's no way a first-year could cast magic of that calibre, could they?

No, that's too advanced. Now I'm really thinking about it couldn't be the girls I mentioned either, even Greengrass. I'd struggle with those spells without the help of a structured lesson, which we certainly don't have in the second year.

I don't know many older students who I deem capable of resorting to attacking someone, especially not a teacher. I, unfortunately, can no longer assist Madam Pince on potential candidates.

She sees my disappointed face and encouragingly smiles "don't worry your brilliant mind over it my girl, I will have words with the Headmaster and see that this doesn't happen again. It is quite obvious what my attacker was after, and if we find the missing book we find the crook."

"I'd be more than happy to assist you in finding the book that's missing" I tell her strongly.

"If my ears were correct, I can believe that" Madam Pince pointedly replies, her wink taking the edge off of her stern tone. So she had heard us talking, I should count myself lucky she took a light-hearted view on this occasion.

Hours later and I still can't get my head around the attack on Madam Pince, and the book that her attacker went to such lengths for. After all that, all the thief wanted was a book about the afterlife, and the science surrounding how ghosts are created.

But that's not important for the moment. The one responsible must be found, and she will. Madam Pince has informed Dumbledore of today's events, and I expect a formal search to be carried out tomorrow morning. They won't get away with it.

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**Interesting start I hope. Part two coming soon. Follow for updates.**

**Chall for now.**


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